


Culture and Corruption

by ConstantDaydreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Art fraud, Artist Remus Lupin, Baby Harry Potter, Crimes & Criminals, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War I, References to Illness, Sex, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Sirius Black & Lily Evans Potter Friendship, Strangers to Lovers, references to death, references to murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantDaydreams/pseuds/ConstantDaydreams
Summary: England, 1920.When Remus' parents pass away and he is left with no way of providing for himself, he is forced to leave his childhood village in Wales and travel to London to find work as a self-taught but skilled painter. It is there that he meets Sirius: beautiful, enigmatic, recently disowned for reasons he refuses to discuss - and interested in exploiting Remus' talent to solve both their financial troubles.However, as Remus and Sirius grow closer, Sirius’ unrelenting secrecy and inexplicably strange behaviour threatens to dismantle everything and land them both in more trouble than Remus could ever have imagined.





	1. Journey to London

It was the hammering of rain on the train carriage roof that woke Remus from his sleep for the fifth time that afternoon. A number of other things had disturbed him since he’d boarded in Cardiff several hours ago; a particularly loud family of six attempting to stuff themselves into his compartment only to give up and let the door slam on their way out, the man sitting beside him leaning bodily across him to pay the woman pushing the tea trolley, the shrill whistle of the train as they had pulled in to the station at Bristol to pick up more passengers, and the unfortunate incident wherein a child sitting opposite him reached for his small suitcase on the shelf above and proceeded to drop it directly on Remus’ lap. 

When a good number of the train’s passengers had departed at Oxford and his carriage was left blissfully empty – save for one quiet woman who had been inoffensively reading a book for the entirety of the journey – Remus had decided to attempt sleep once more in the two hours or so he had left until London. Had he been able to afford a first-class ticket, there was a chance he would have been able to rest undisturbed ever since he’d left Wales, however with his meagre budget scraped together from his final bookseller’s paycheque and the loose coins he’d found while cleaning out the cottage, he’d just been able to scrape the amount necessary for the cheapest possible fare. For a while between Oxford and London he sat with his head leaning against the cool window as they chugged through rolling countryside, unaware in his slumber that the sky was turning the familiar, ominous shade of grey so typical of England in the autumn. When the heavens finally opened and the torrential downpour that woke him up began, he felt no more rested than when he’d closed his eyes. 

Stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and peered out of the rain-streaked window to try and locate them on their journey. All he saw, however, were chimney tops spewing weak tendrils of smoke in amongst the shrubbery either side of the tracks. The woman opposite him was still intently focused on her book, a gloved hand thumbing the corner of a page as her eyes darted back and forth behind thin reading glasses. Remus cleared his throat quietly and shifted in his seat to get her attention. “Excuse me?” he said, voice rough from sleep, “Whereabouts are we?” 

The woman glanced up from her book, then at the window, before giving him a polite smile. “Buckinghamshire,” she replied. “We passed Aylesbury about forty minutes ago, that was our last stop before Marylebone. It won’t be long now.” Whether Remus had reminded her of their impending arrival in London or whether she was simply displeased at having her peaceful reading interrupted, the woman placed her book away in a canvas travelling bag and slid open the door to the carriage, nodding a goodbye to Remus before leaving him alone. He listened for a while as the click of her shoes became more distant down the corridor outside, then sighed and leaned back in his seat. 

Perhaps if he had been coming to London under more pleasant circumstances, he would be more enthusiastic about the end of the journey. As it stood, he was in the city more out of necessity than choice, with the intention of collecting the small inheritance left to him by his recently deceased mother and using it to pay for somewhere to stay where he might find work. The added touch of the heavy rain only served to lower his mood further, and for the first time since boarding the train he felt a shiver run down his spine at the slight chill in the air. He was already looking forward to finishing his business at the bank and finding a hotel for the night, keen for a pot of tea and something solid in his stomach. He had been struggling to find any appetite in the week since his mother’s funeral, but now the hassle of travelling had successfully worn him down and all he could think of was a plate of hot food and a warm place to sleep. 

Remus had been to London only twice before in his life, once when he was very young and his parents had taken him to a theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue and once when he was sixteen and his father had helped him open his bank account to deposit the first few paycheques he earned working in the village’s small bookshop. Lyall Lupin had been a devoted civil servant before the war, spending most of his time working in the local council office but occasionally travelling to London on business to attend to matters at Westminster. He’d always spoken of those trips with a great sense of importance, impressing upon Remus from a young age that London was where real change happened, where real decisions were made. And as such, Lyall had conducted his personal financial affairs in London, and encouraged his wife and son to do the same, which was why Remus currently found himself leaving his small home village of Beddgelert for the busy thrum of the city. Keeping the family’s cottage in order had become a great deal more difficult once his father passed away, and Remus knew that practically he would be entirely unable to run things himself now that his mother was also gone. He didn’t want to sit idle and watch the house he’d grown up in fall in to disrepair due to his own stubbornness, and so in the past month he had sold the house to a local farm in need of a home for their farmhands, and decided to pursue work in London.

Of course, Remus was fully aware of how difficult a task that would prove to be. Every man returning from war was looking for some kind of work, even the most menial jobs were as highly coveted as gold dust when they were made available. And Remus had a suspicion that, of the applicants each job interviewed, their likely choice was going to be the war hero who made it back successfully from the front as opposed to the man whose asthma had written him off from service and resulted in a vast collection of white feathers cultivated over the four-year period of fighting. Even so, he decided his chances would be improved in a city with so many industries and offices over a small village whose most lucrative business was the local pub. 

Remus mused on this thought as the train pulled slowly in to Marylebone station, letting out a hiss of steam as it ground to a halt at the platform. A conductor leapt down from near the engine and blew a whistle, and then Remus heard the slide of bolts and the squeak of hinges as doors all along the compartments swung open. He stood up slowly, the joints in his legs and back protesting after being sat stationary for so long, and carefully removed his two suitcases from the rack above his seat. He had a habit of packing light, even when those suitcases contained every single one of his worldly possessions. As people filtered out of the compartment, Remus joined the flow and was carried along in a flurry of tweed jackets and thick skirts until his feet landed safely on the platform. He could still hear the rain pattering above him on the glass and steel ceiling, though he paid it no mind as he set off towards the information desk at the entrance of the station. 

One thing that particularly intimidated Remus about London, and always had, was that everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going and had no doubt in their minds about how they planned to get there. It made inexperienced travellers such as himself an irritation for other commuters, as he felt constantly in the way whenever he lingered too long near a wall map or paused to check an address he had scribbled down in his small pocketbook. While he knew exactly where his father’s bank was located, just opposite the Royal Courts along the Strand, he hadn’t the slightest clue where to find the office of his lawyer, who he would need to visit first to obtain the documents entitling him to his inheritance. And considering how limited his travel budget was after paying his way from Cardiff, he could not afford to make mistakes and go back and forth trying to find it. 

The man sitting in the information kiosk looked him up and down when he showed him the address he’d scribbled, as though it should have been obvious which way he needed to go. “You’ll want the Bakerloo line to Oxford Circus,” he said, crooking his finger to indicate Remus should slide the notebook under the glass divider between them. He took a stubby pencil from behind his ear and wrote down basic instructions for the journey as he said them aloud, even going as far as to note down the colours of each line for him to identify them on a map. “Then change platforms there, and use the Central line to get to Chancery Lane or Holborn, your choice. Either’ll work for you.” He handed the notebook over to him again, and Remus saw that he had written, ‘Bakerloo (brown) to Ox. Circus – Central (red) to Chanc. Lane or Holborn’, along with a little ‘S’ for Southbound and ‘E’ for Eastbound beside each line. 

“Thank you,” Remus said, nodding to him gratefully and tucking the book back in his pocket before making his way down the steps to the Underground. Despite having visited London twice he had never taken the tube, as Hope had fretted about what it would do to his lungs to be enclosed in a tight space with very little air and plenty of fumes from the trains. Remus himself was a little apprehensive about it, but there was no way he could afford a cab with the money he had left, and navigating London’s buses somehow seemed a more daunting task. At least with his written instructions he could find his way efficiently, and given that the evening rush hour generally took people away from the city centre, he was travelling against the foot traffic and was able to find a seat on both trains he boarded. He realised quickly that it wasn’t the air that was the problem, it was the stifling heat and the deafening screech of wheels on tracks that seemed to echo around the tunnel whenever they pulled in to a new platform. After just twenty minutes Remus had vowed to himself that he would learn a suitable bus route by heart as soon as he’d moved in to a permanent residence, and use that wherever possible to avoid going underground more than necessary. 

Thankfully the walk from Chancery Lane station to the law firm was a short one, and the cool evening air felt like sweet relief after being stuck in the stifling tube tunnels. Even the proceedings at the firm took less time than he expected, with the longest process being the polite acceptance of condolences from first the receptionist, then the personal assistant, then finally the lawyer in charge of his case. Remus didn’t know what he’d been hoping for when he was finally handed the papers containing details of his inheritance – maybe that his father would have kept a secret flat that he would suddenly bestow on him at the last minute, or that the numbers on the page would inexplicably double. Neither happened, and he ended up leaving the law firm and heading to the bank to claim the meagre sum of £110. 

 

While it was slightly less than Remus had hoped for, or at least slightly less than was ideal in a city as expensive as London, it was more than enough to get him set up in a hotel for the night and away from the biting chill of the autumn night air. He knew that his best chances at affordable accommodation lay outside of the city centre, and so spent a while sat in a café using a cheap discarded guidebook to plot a bus route to the east end. From various trickle-down sources of information he believed Hackney or Spitalfields to be the most promising areas, and so once he had drained the final sips from his teacup he gathered his suitcases and ventured out in to the cold once more. 

The bus journey to the east end was admittedly simpler than he had presumed it would be. Although he had to change once and fumble with change to pay the second fare, he had successfully evaded the last dregs of the rush hour and found himself a seat for the entire ride, using the one beside him to stack his luggage precariously. By the time the bus dropped him off on Primrose Street he could feel sleep dragging at his eyelids, lulled by the swaying motion of the double-decker and the slight warmth produced under the seats by the engine. Fortunately the bus driver, most likely keen for conversation after a long evening shift, was more than happy to point him down the street in the direction of a pub named ‘The Burrow’ that he assured him would have vacancies, jokingly sweetening the deal by suggesting he might get a free pint out of it. Remus thanked him and stepped off the bus in to what was now drizzling rain again, ducking his head as he made for the inviting lights in the pub windows. 

As promised, the inside of the pub brought an instant flood of warmth that seeped through Remus’ clothes and directly to his bones. He would have sighed aloud had it not been for the many patrons scattered about the various tables, but he did take a minute to close his eyes and indulge in the relief of being somewhere vaguely familiar. For lack of anything better to do in the evenings back home, the local pub was a haunt for even those who didn’t drink, as it meant socialising and warmth and laughter, and it seemed no different here no matter how many miles away. Remus wiped some rainwater from his face with his sleeve and approached the bar somewhat shyly, reluctant to interrupt the evidently hilarious conversation two ruddy-faced men were having with the woman pouring their drinks. He needn’t have worried, however, as one of them looked up as soon as he came near and loudly announced, “Christ! Look here, Molly, s’a drowned man walking! Where’ve you come from, mate?” 

Realising he was being addressed directly, Remus started and quickly replied, “Wales. I’ve come from Wales.” 

For some reason, this inspired a roar of laughter from the man who’d spoken before, who clapped a hand on his shoulder so hard his knees almost buckled. “What, did you walk all the way here? You’re bloody soaked.” He flicked Remus’ shirt collar to emphasise his point, and a few droplets of water leaked from it on to his shirt.

The woman behind the bar – Molly, supposedly – tutted and swatted him with the tea towel that had been slung over her shoulder. “Oh shut up, Fabian, you’re awful,” she admonished, before turning to face Remus with a slightly weary smile. She couldn’t have been much older than him, he realised now she was looking at him directly, but she had a sort of kindness in her face that made her seem mature. She was the kind of woman that you could naturally picture with children, as though she were somehow incomplete without one attached to her hip. “You’ll have to forgive my brother,” she said, shooting the man another quick glare. Ah, of course, brother. They both shared the same shock of red hair, curling around freckled foreheads. “One cider and he turns into a cretin. But you really do look cold, he’s not wrong about that.”

Remus, still reeling slightly from the intense greeting, blinked at her dumbly for a minute before finding his voice. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I was wondering if you had a room I could rent for the night. And…food, maybe.” He was painfully aware of his accent in a way he hadn’t been yet, since arriving in London. Not even in the law firm, where everyone he’d spoken to talked with precisely clipped received pronunciation, had he felt quite so out of place. Perhaps it was the exact strength of the cockney accent that was in such contrast with his own. 

Molly once again gave him that warm maternal smile, and nodded so her curls bounced. “Of course, you were right to come, we have a couple at the moment. Fabian, why don’t you make yourself useful and go upstairs to check on Ron? Arthur won’t be back for a while longer.” She shooed her brother off his stool with the same tea towel she’d hit him with, and he held his hands up in resignation before vaulting himself, gangly legs and all, over the bar and through a narrow door at the back. Molly rolled her eyes and walked to the other end of the bar, where she held up a hidden partition and gestured for him to walk through. “I’ll let you come in the less dramatic way,” she teased lightly. “You don’t look in a fit state to be doing gymnastics now.” 

Smiling gratefully, Remus once again picked up his suitcases and rounded the bar to follow her through the same door as Fabian had just used, behind which was a steep flight of wooden stairs that creaked under his every footstep. It took a little careful manoeuvring to get his luggage up without scraping the faded wallpaper, but he managed. And as they walked, Molly was tossing friendly questions at him over her shoulder. 

“Wales, you said?”

“That’s right, Ma’am.” 

“Oh, don’t do that. It’s Molly.”

“Molly. I’m Remus.”

“Remus, how interesting. Whereabouts in Wales?”

“Um, Beddgelert, in the north. Don’t worry, nobody’s heard of it.” A weak laugh escaped him.

“I’m sure it’s beautiful, all of Wales seems to be beautiful. Arthur – that’s my husband, excuse me – and I went to Pontypridd once, it was ever so lovely. A little quiet, of course, but then we’re so used to being here in all this commotion. And let me tell you, with six children, it’s quite the commotion! One more on the way too, God help us. If it’s another boy, I swear…”

“I…congratulations.” Remus was so occupied trying to keep up with Molly’s rambling while also navigating the stairs that it was all he could find to say. Truthfully he was a little alarmed; at twenty-five years old himself, he couldn’t place this woman more than a couple of years older than him, which meant she must have had almost a child a year since leaving behind adolescence. The task was such a daunting one for a man who’d grown up an only child that it made his head spin slightly. 

Still, it seemed to be enough for Molly, who grinned at him over her shoulder and flapped a dismissive hand. “Thank you, you’re very sweet. Anyway, listen to me going on. Are you in London for anything special, anything fun?” 

If Remus had been thinking straight, he would have invented a lie to make things simple, he would have told her he was visiting friends or seeing a show or conducting some sort of boring business. Instead, what left his mouth was the absolute truth, and he didn’t quite realise how depressing it sounded until he spoke it aloud to someone as jovial as Molly. “I’m here to collect my mother’s inheritance, and the last of my father’s. And to find work.”

By this point they had reached the top of the staircase, and were standing in a small hallway that was little more than a square metre. Another staircase ascended further up to a second floor, and three closed doors surrounded them where they stood. “I’m so sorry,” Molly said quietly, clasping the knitted shawl over her shoulders in one hand and placing the other gently on his arm. It was such a poignant feeling after the intensity of the day that it almost broke him down. “If there is anything we can do, you let us know, hm? I’m sure Arthur could put in a good word for you at his offices, he’s very well trusted in his department.”

Perhaps Remus should have shown more interest and sincerity, inquired further about what line of work Molly’s husband was in, but he was so overwhelmed by her willingness to offer such help to a complete stranger that all he could do was nod feebly and whisper a thank-you. They stood there together in silence for a moment, and somewhere on the floor above them Remus heard a couple of thumps and the squealing laughter of a child. It seemed to break them out of their strange trance, and Molly took a deep breath before smiling warmly at him. 

“This will be your room for the night, I hope it’s okay. Don’t worry, you can’t hear the children once you’re inside.” She opened the door to the left of them and stepped aside to let him pass through with his suitcases, which he set down almost immediately as the room was in total darkness and he was afraid of tripping over something. Fortunately Molly followed closely after him, and clearly knew the layout of the room well enough that she was able to glide over to the bedside and switch on a small lamp. It flickered precariously to life, and Remus got his first look at his lodgings for the night. The room wasn’t too large, with just enough space for a single bed covered in what looked like a hand-knitted quilt and single pillow. A window at the end of the room looked out on to the alleyway between the pub and the next building along, and in front of it there was a writing desk upon which rested three sheets of paper and three pencils of varying lengths. There was a dresser too, with a dusty mirror sat on top of it and an empty wash basin and china pitcher. There was no heater to be seen, but the warmth from the full pub below seemed to seep through the floor and keep it a perfect temperature regardless. 

“It’s perfect,” Remus said thankfully, turning to face Molly with an encouraging smile when he realised she was standing there anticipating his approval. “Thank you. It’s just nice to be out of the rain, honestly.” His attempt at a joke was weak, just the corner of his mouth quirking up to show he intended it to be funny at all. 

Molly cottoned on and laughed softly, most likely a skill learned from laughing at the jokes of tipsy customers who believed their comedy to be far better than it really was while intoxicated. “Well, it isn’t the Ritz, but it will serve you well for a night,” she said amicably, clasping her hands together. “And you mentioned you were hungry, I haven’t forgotten. There’s still some food left downstairs from the dinner service, I’ll bring it up for you now if you’re not picky about what you have.” 

Remus shook his head quickly. “Not at all,” he assured her. “I’ll eat anything.” 

This brought a grin to her face, and Remus found it was quite contagious. “You’re just like my boys, then,” she said fondly. “Mouths like dustbins, the lot of them. Well, except Percy perhaps, he’s always had a bit more of a refined taste for a lad so young.” She shrugged lightly, and rested one hand over her stomach. It was clear to see, when she did that, that she was indeed carrying another child. “Anyway, I’ll let you get settled, the toilet is the next door along from you, on the right. No separate bathroom, I’m afraid, so I’d advise you get your washing done while you can before you have to fight my whole brood for it. Feel free to use that jug and bring some water in here to keep you going, I’ll be right up with that food for you.” 

Nodding his understanding, Remus watched her turn and leave the room before going to sink down on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked and protested under his weight, but the feeling of the quilt beneath his hands was already enough to soothe him. A concern of his when coming to London had been that the buildings would be clinical, unfeeling, lacking the weathered charm of the Welsh countryside that he was so accustomed to. Within the space of ten minutes Molly’s hospitality had assured him he was wrong, that comfort and home were still very much within his reach. 

Heeding Molly’s warning about the competition for the bathroom, Remus slipped off his shoes and padded out to go and wash his face, deciding there would be time for a bath another time and that the rain had done a decent enough job of rinsing him clean already. He quickly relieved himself and washed his hands with the slim bar of soap on the tray beside the sink, then vanished back to his room to be out of the family’s way so they too could prepare for bed. He realised that he hadn’t even asked about the price of the room, but a voice in the back of his head told him that asking such a thing of Molly might verge on insulting, and that she was hardly going to charge him through the teeth for the night’s stay. 

She was back with his food within minutes of him returning to the room, and he felt his stomach growl as soon as the scent of it hit his nose. Telling him she would come and collect the tray in the morning, and that breakfast could be found downstairs from eight, she bid him goodnight and closed the door lightly behind her. Remus pounced on the food immediately like a starving man, taking up position at the desk to eat. He watched out of the window as more rain drizzled down the glass panes, shovelling roast potatoes and steamed vegetables and meat in to his mouth. Presuming Molly had been the one to cook the food, she truly had a gift for it, and Remus reminded himself to insist on paying extra for the meal on top of the price for the room. It was the perfect antidote to the stress and confusion of the day, exactly what he needed to patch whatever hole had slowly been tearing itself open inside of him since the funeral. 

When he had finished eating, he pushed the tray back and dressed clumsily for bed, wriggling out of his trousers like a child and fumbling blindly for his pyjamas in the larger of his two suitcases. Now fed and warm his exhaustion had hit him with full force, and he could barely keep his eyes open as he crawled under the bed sheets and switched off the faintly buzzing light with a soft ‘click’. As soon as his head hit the pillow, sleep claimed him, his mind fogging over in blissful silence. 

The fact that Remus was able to sleep undisturbed for the entirety of the night was, like his readiness to eat a full meal, a new experience since his mother’s passing. For once no nightmares woke him, no dark thoughts of anxieties kept him awake and staring at the ceiling for hours. On the contrary, by the time morning sunlight filtered in through the window and hit him square in the face, he was so comfortable and relaxed he was reluctant to move. If it hadn’t been for the noises of people moving about in the pub beneath him he was sure he would have remained in bed all day like an invalid. However, he didn’t want to appear unsociable in the face of Molly’s unwavering hospitality, so he dragged himself out of bed and winced a little as his toes touched the chilly floorboards. 

After dressing quickly and finding the bathroom occupied by what sounded like two people – a child patiently explaining something and a much smaller boy’s voice insisting that he could ‘do it himself’ – Remus headed down the creaking stairs and out in to the main room of the pub. It looked no less welcoming in daylight than it had the night before, in fact it simply meant he could better appreciate the various knick-knacks strewn about. A pair of knitting needles and accompanying half-completed scarf lay across one of the bar stools, a child’s teddy bear with one button eye missing was propped up on a table by the door, and there was a gramophone in the corner that was currently playing something slow and pleasant. 

Molly was standing at the bar with her back to the door, so Remus cleared his throat to alert her to his presence in case he startled her. She seemed to have eyes in her head, however, as she simply waved a hand in greeting before returning to her task of slicing two apples. “Good morning, Remus,” she said airily. “Help yourself to anything on the table, there’s plenty for everyone who wants it and anyone who doesn’t come down on time should know better by now. Arthur!” She raised her voice a little and leaned her upper body over the bar to call to another ginger-haired man sat at the designated breakfast table. He was so deeply absorbed in a newspaper that his nose was practically pressed into the page, and when he looked up he had the air of an eccentric inventor whose creation had just exploded. “Arthur dear, this is Remus, he’s from Wales.”

Arthur seemed to get over his shock of being called upon very easily, and he extended a hand to Remus with an enthusiastic smile. “Wales! Lovely, very lovely. I don’t suppose you follow the rugby, hm, being Welsh? Dreadfully good match the other day, I was just looking over the scores…” He tapped his finger on the newspaper, rustling and creasing it. “You lot gave us quite the run for our money, it’s a very good thing I’m not a betting man.” He chuckled and took a gulp of his tea, a weak looking builder’s brew in a chipped red mug. 

Remus took a seat opposite him and, as he’d done when he’d met Molly, smiled through the man’s excitable rambling with a gratitude that they were talkative people and not uncomfortably stiff and silent. Thus far, everything he’d been led to believe about Londoners was being turned on its head. He helped himself to a piece of toast and buttered it sparingly, very aware that he was eating someone else’s rationed food. He tilted the teapot slightly to check if it was full, and poured himself a cup into which he added a splash of milk. He didn’t dare add sugar, as much as he’d have liked it, as it seemed too much of a luxury to waste. He was about to open his mouth to respond that he didn’t follow rugby so much as he did football, when he was interrupted by the sound of feet clattering downstairs. 

The door behind the bar burst open with such a force that it smashed into the wall next to it, and a flurry of feet darted out from it accompanied by mad laughter. At first Remus thought it was just one small child moving very quickly, before he looked more closely and realised it was two identical little boys scurrying about together. Both of them were topped with more carroty hair, their mischievous faces smattered with freckles and barely-there eyebrows. They were pursued down the stairs by a slightly older boy, identical in appearance but wearing an exasperated expression on his face. “Mum,” he complained, “Mum, Fred’s made a right mess of the bathroom, there’s toothpaste bloody everywhere, and George got the bloody cat to roll in it…oh.” The older boy, who Remus thought must be about ten, had finally spotted him staring and gone quiet. 

Molly glanced up and looked between them, smiling wearingly. “Ah, right, yes. Bill, this is Remus, our guest. Remus, this is my oldest, Bill. The two devils you see there are Fred and George, they’re the twins – boys, boys come here and get your lunches.” She had scooped the apple slices in to two paper bags, which she was now holding out over the top of the bar. Evidently the promise of food seemed to outweigh the boys’ bad behaviour, and they rushed forward to grab a bag each. “Bill, I forgot to say, Charlie already left. He took Percy with him, you’ll have to run along with the boys and catch up. I did ask them to wait, but you know what Percy’s like when he thinks he’s going to be late, such a worrier.” 

Once again, Remus was struck dumb with nothing to add to the situation. The hustle and bustle outside the door of the pub was nothing compared to the madness inside the house, and he felt it best to keep quiet and focus on eating his toast while the family got themselves in order. One by one the children filed out of the door clutching their lunch bags, on their way to what Remus could only assume was school. After a little while Arthur also departed, going to kiss his wife soundly on the cheek and coo at a bundle of blankets atop the bar before vanishing through the front door. It was only then that Remus realised he’d counted five named or present children throughout the morning, and the sixth must be the baby currently swaddled and dozing on the counter. Molly must have caught him looking, as she inclined her head towards it and said, “Ronald.” 

Remus nodded politely and finished his cup of tea, then dug in his pocket to examine the money he currently had on him. He’d been sparing when deciding how much to take in cash when he left the bank the previous evening, wanting to preserve as much of his inheritance as possible for the very likely event of him being unable to find stable work. “How much do I owe you for the room?” he asked after a while, glancing up from his money counting to look over at Molly. 

Now preoccupied with wiping down the top of the bar, she shook her head firmly. “Nothing at all. And before you argue, save your breath. I won’t hear of it, absolutely not. Young man just lost his mother who’d otherwise be out in the rain? We’d be monsters to charge you, put your money away.” She had such a firm, stern tone that he decided to take her word for it, and slipped the coins and notes back in to his trouser pocket. 

“Maybe you could help me with something else, then,” Remus continued, fidgeting with the spoon sticking out of the sugar pot. “You wouldn’t know of anywhere I can find an easel, maybe some paint brushes, would you?” Inspiration had struck Remus the night before, as he’d been staring out of the window and scarfing down food as fast as possible, that perhaps one line of employment to pursue would be his considerable talent for painting. It wasn’t a skill many people expected him to have, as fine art was generally deemed a solidly upper-class pastime and therefore not an area that a Welsh bookseller’s assistant would excel in. However, given the lack of funding that had been available to send Remus to university and his asthma preventing him from helping out with any of the more physical work most of the lads in the village undertook, painting the rolling countryside and colourful Beddgelert residents had become a hobby that Remus had honed into a true talent. Any of his wages that weren’t saved up in his London-based bank account were spent on canvases and paints, and the smaller of his two suitcases carried what remained of his supplies. 

Molly, like everyone else, seemed rather surprised to hear his request. “An artist, are you? Well isn’t that cream rice?” She grinned, waving her rag at him. “Always wanted to see someone paint who’s got a proper gift for it. And you know, as it happens, you’re in luck. We’re just down the road from a little antique shop, though it sells plenty of things in good second-hand condition too. Half the furniture in this bloody pub’s come from them, and we’ve got no complaints about it. You’ll most likely find what you need in there. Run by a lovely girl too, you tell her Molly sent you and I bet she’ll do you a deal if you find something that suits you. And listen, I won’t hear a word about you paying us for that room, and you stay for as long as you need. If you really feel the need to contribute, a nice painting for over that fireplace would do us a treat.” She dropped him a little wink and turned to attend to Ronald, who had clearly just woken up and was starting to grizzle from amongst his blankets. 

Not wanting to further intrude on Molly’s morning or time with her family, Remus thanked her and slid out of his chair to head for the door. When he stepped outside he was pleased to find that the weather had cleared up, and weak sunlight was starting to poke through the omnipresent cloud cover. He checked the road was clear before crossing it in a light jog, keeping an eye out for the antique shop as he went. He passed a tailor’s shop whose window was plastered with a large poster advertising their willingness to buy old unwanted fabrics, then a greengrocers plastered with a similar poster advertising that they accepted ration books. Even two years on from armistice day, the effects of the war were still evident throughout the country. The final business he passed seemed to be a barber, before eventually he spotted a hanging sign declaring the end-of-terrace shop to be “Potters’ Corner – Antiques and Furnishings.” The sign was a deep red with gold lettering, a little weather-worn but charmingly so. In the window stood an assortment of wooden chests and dressers, an ornate gramophone, and – Remus noted to his delight – an easel. 

He pushed open the red-painted door and stepped inside, the bell above it tinkling its welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you got this far, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for sticking with it. This is my first attempt at Harry Potter fic, I've been active in other fandoms for a long time but once I got this idea in my head I just had to write it for Remus and Sirius. Sirius himself will appear in the next chapter, along with James and Lily and Harry. It won't be a particularly slow burn, but I do plan on having multiple chapters that will see their relationship develop steadily. And anyone who came here looking for smut, don't worry, there'll be some :D future chapters will expand more on Remus' backstory and of course delve into Sirius', so if you liked it please leave me a comment letting me know, it's really a huge motivator for me to get on and write more quickly <3 Also, a quick couple of notes on this chapter:
> 
> 1 - The fic takes place in 1920, two years after the First World War ended.  
> 2 - Ron and Harry are approximately a year old during this fic, so I've tried to adjust the ages of the other Weasley kids accordingly. Fred and George would be about three, Percy five or six, Charlie about eight and of course Bill at around ten.  
> 3 - When Molly says 'cream rice', she's using cockney rhyming slang - it means 'nice'. Cockney rhyming slang is so fun and I just had to put it in there somewhere :D  
> 4 - I am from London so I'm trying to be as accurate in my descriptions as possible, but of course transport routes have changed a lot since the 1920s so forgive me if I accidentally stick Remus on the wrong bus or train at some point. He'll get where he's going.  
> 5 - I'm currently writing these notes at 1am and a lot of this chapter was written this evening too, so if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes don't be afraid to let me know, I'll be reading through and editing when I next get the chance!
> 
> Please leave a comment letting me know what you think! <3


	2. Potter's Corner

Potters’ Corner was the sort of place that Remus could imagine reading about in a novel. From the moment he stepped inside it became clear that the owner had taken great pains to distance the shop from the hustle and bustle of London’s streets and turn it instead into a sort of quiet safe haven; the sheer amount of shelves backed against the walls of the room must have acted like a second layer of insulation against the city din outside, as it was blissfully silent save for the gentle mismatched ticking of a collection of grandfather clocks in the far corner. The wooden floorboards looked ancient and creaked slightly under his weight as he moved further inside the shop, and with each step forward it became increasingly obvious that the shelving and sideboards were all of a similar age. Whether or not they were themselves for sale as antiques, Remus did not know, but he would not have been surprised to find price tags attached to every single item in the shop. 

The collection of items was nothing short of impressive. Immediately upon entering Remus was confronted with a glass cabinet stuffed to the brim with a selection of china sets, plates and bowls painted in anything from delicate flower patterns to bold Grecian designs. Beyond that he could see there were a range of musical instruments hung up on the wall, violins and guitars and one large cello whose position looked so precarious that Remus forewent walking by it on the off chance he might accidentally knock it down. Instead he veered left from the door, along a line of waist-high glass cabinets that all contained things made of crystal: tumblers, serving dishes, decanters, ash trays. There were so many little trinkets that they were stacked on top of each other, their tiny cardboard tags trailing out in every direction to be clearly read by interested parties. These cabinets were all in front of the window, and the weak morning sunlight filtered through to make the crystal sparkle invitingly to anyone who had a spare £3 to spend on a single item. But that person was not Remus, so he continued to walk until he reached the end of the row and was met by a wall lined with tall, dark-wood bookshelves. 

The volumes on the shelf ranged from fiction to non-fiction, English to French to Russian, so ancient the binding was crumbling to new enough that the spines weren’t even creased. For a while Remus pleased himself pulling out a few that looked interesting and flipping through the musty yellowing pages to get a feel for the stories; each book he picked was a novel, something he could escape in to while he was in his little room above Molly’s pub in the evenings. Books were familiar to him, after so many years surrounded by them, and the earthy smell of aged paper provided a strange sort of comfort he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Since nobody had come out to greet him yet, or to hurry him in to his purchase, he took his time with the books and found an old wooden dining chair to perch on as he selected a couple that he’d like to bring back with him. Each book was marked in pencil in the top corner of the first page to show the price and publication date, and eventually Remus settled on a nice pea-green leather-bound copy of ‘Our Mutual Friend’ for eight shillings, and a slightly tatty paperback collection of Thomas Hardy’s assorted poems that would set him back just ten pence. 

Remus was just standing up to go in search of the owner when he caught the faint murmuring of voices coming from somewhere unknown to him. He paused for a moment, keeping still enough that he wouldn’t creak the floorboards, wondering if he’d just heard some passers-by on the street outside. But then someone let out a loud peal of laughter from what sounded like directly above him, and he immediately tilted his head back to squint at the ceiling. He’d been so occupied looking for the shop’s sign that he hadn’t stopped to consider the fact it had a second floor, but thinking back he now remembered that there had definitely been two upper windows. However, in the maze of shelves and cabinets on the first floor it was virtually impossible to see where there might be a staircase. 

Carefully inserting the books he’d discarded back on to their shelves, Remus followed his ears to where the noise from upstairs was loudest, listening to the creaks in the ceiling as whoever was up there moved about. He was eventually led to the very back corner of the shop, where a heavy, red velvet curtain obscured what turned out to be a set of narrow wooden stairs ascending to the second floor. A sign on the wall beside it shaped like a pointing hand invited him to ‘pay upstairs, please’, and so he started to slowly climb with his hand pressed flat against the wall for support in the dimly lit passageway. 

The closer he came to the top of the stairs, the clearer the conversation became. He could still hear chuckling, then what sounded like a smack and a man’s voice exclaiming, “Ow! Christ, woman!” followed by yet more hysterical laughter. There must have been three people involved, and Remus briefly considered turning back so as not to interrupt them before he found himself stepping out into a bright little attic room directly behind another tall set of shelves. He decided he’d come this far, and he really did need that easel, so he slowly advanced further until he could peek out around the last shelf in the row and finally see the people he’d overheard.

The first person he took notice of was a woman standing behind a long glass counter full of more odds and ends. She was backlit by the natural light coming through a large round window set in to the sloping ceiling, and it was making her brilliant red hair shine like copper. She was beautiful, there was no denying it – her freckled face was striking and traditionally attractive, even when it was set in to its current expression of an irritated scowl. Standing on the other side of the counter to her left was a tall, lanky man with a mess of dark brown curls and round glasses perched rather high on his nose. His skin was light brown, and Remus thought that at least one of his parents had to have some Indian heritage based on the rest of his features. He wore a fond expression as he gazed at the woman that was entirely mismatched with her glare, as though he were either entirely unaware of her anger or all the more in love with her for it.

It was the third person in the room, however, that truly made Remus pause. The man was slightly shorter than the first, closer to the woman’s height and just as slender. High cheekbones that Remus could only describe as ‘aristocratic’ were framed by a curtain of shining black hair that hung in very slight waves down to his shoulders, and piercing blue eyes were creased at the corners as a melodic laugh escaped his mouth; a mouth that was, he noticed, the perfect shade of pink and full of straight white teeth. He had a kind of beauty that was almost uncomfortable to look at in its perfection, the sort that was usually only found in Renaissance paintings. Remus half expected to see him with a pair of wings on his back, or a crown of thorns on his head. As his eyes travelled down he saw that he was holding a bundle of blankets, out of which poked a very small baby’s head.

Remus shook himself free of his surprise at happening upon such a universally attractive group of people, and focused instead on what they were saying. As though they were reading rehearsed lines from a play, the three of them bantered back and forth with astonishing speed and wit, and Remus couldn’t help but watch in faint awe from his vantage point behind the shelf. 

“You have my word, it’s the highest possible quality,” the beautiful man holding the baby was saying, with an exaggerated lilt to his voice. “Most likely the highest valued item in this entire shop. I really am doing you a favour, you know, I’m hardly asking anything for it.” 

“Yes, you eejit, because it’s stolen,” the redhead spat, with such a roll of her eyes it was a wonder they didn’t disappear into her head. 

The man raised his eyebrows. “That’s an ugly word. It’s a family heirloom, Potter, I have just as much claim to it as any of them. It can hardly be considered stealing if you take it from your own home, now, can it?” 

The second man snorted and folded his arms, leaning back against the counter. “She’s right, Sirius. Simply because she’s too polite to remind you that it no longer is your home. Honestly, one day that frightful butler of yours will catch you and take away your key, and then you’ll be in trouble.” He reached inside his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case, removing a smoke and striking a match against the wooden edge of the counter to light it.

The first man – Sirius, apparently – grinned and joined his friend in leaning against the counter. “Kreacher is the least of our worries; I think your wife is about to kill me.” 

The woman, ‘Potter’, sighed and leaned forward to prop her elbows on the counter and her forehead in her hands exasperatedly. “You act like I’m being entirely unreasonable, not wanting to accept it. You know what’ll happen if your mother realises you’ve taken it, she’ll set the police on you and eventually they’ll come straight here. You’re putting us at risk.” After clearly contemplating for a second, winding a strand of red hair around her finger, she huffed irritably and straightened up. “Give me my son back and then maybe I’ll consider your offer.”

Sirius’ grin grew wider. “I don’t think your wife trusts me, James. Don’t you trust me, Lily?” He held the baby away from her for a second, teasing, before relenting and handing the bundle over quite safely. The baby himself seemed entirely unconcerned by everything, sleeping soundly and barely making more than a squeak as he exchanged hands. 

Remus had resolved to turn back and leave them to their evidently personal conversation, however as he made to head back downstairs his foot kicked over a large brass pot that had been set beside the shelf which clattered across the floorboards with conspicuous volume. All three heads turned towards him, the two men now both with cigarettes hanging from their lips staring blankly at him while the woman looked up from her baby with her mouth forming a little ‘O’. Remus got the distinct feeling of being somewhere he didn’t belong, as though he’d walked in to a party only to realise he knew nobody in the room. 

For a minute, nobody said anything. And then finally, after the four of them had stared at each other for a good while, the woman shook her head and went back to scowling at the man Remus now knew to be her husband. “See what you two do? You distract me from doing my actual job. I’m so sorry, sir, please come in, we’re open. James, take Harry.” She handed the baby off to her husband with barely a glance in his direction, though he took him with a practiced sort of ease and settled him in the crook of his arm, keeping the cigarette well away from him in his free hand. “What can I help you with?”

Remus blinked, still wondering if he should just make a run for it as he approached the counter. Although James had occupied himself with cooing at his son, Remus could feel Sirius’ eyes watching him with every step he took. “I…I just had a question about the easel in the window downstairs,” he said, trying incredibly hard to maintain his composure despite feeling a heat creeping up the back of his neck. “I was wondering if it was for sale. And…how much?” He swallowed down a lump in his throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago, fidgeting with a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. Beside him, Sirius blew out a plume of smoke and tapped some ash on to the floor. 

Lily smiled warmly. “Yes! Yes, of course it is. I’ll take three shillings and sixpence for it, it’s really quite old. Still works, though, I promise – just a bit of paint on it, some dents, that’s all.” She stooped behind the counter and rifled around on some hidden shelves below the glass cabinet, eventually emerging with a small paper booklet and a pencil. “I’ll write up a receipt for you, and James can get it out of the shop window.” She gave her husband a pointed look, which he returned with a smirk. 

“You know that’ll mean giving Harry back to Sirius, don’t you?” 

Lily set her jaw, and Remus noticed one of her hands flexing on the countertop as though she were deciding whether to smack him again. “I know what I said,” she eventually muttered. “Go and get the easel down for…sorry, what was your name, sir?” She paused with her pencil hovering above the booklet, neat cursive handwriting already spelling out ‘1 easel – 3s 6p’. 

“Remus. My name is Remus.” 

James stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the end of the counter, kissing Harry’s forehead before passing him back over to Sirius, who finally took his eyes off Remus to grin down at the baby. Once James had disappeared downstairs in a tuneful two-steps-at-a-time skip, the room went silent as Lily continued to write and Remus hovered awkwardly in wait. 

“Remus is an odd name.” 

Snapping his head up at the sound of Sirius’ voice, Remus felt colour creeping up from his collar in to his cheeks. For some reason he hadn’t expected to be addressed so directly by him – someone like that, with the kind of beauty that Shakespeare would have written sonnets about, shouldn’t have had any time or care for the likes of Remus. He was so surprised by it that it took him a moment to remember how to use his mouth, and he wasn’t even able to get a word out before Lily stepped in for him. 

“So is Sirius,” she snapped, tearing the receipt from the booklet and passing it over to Remus with a strained smile. “I can only apologise. I like to think we’d have made a better first impression if Mr Black hadn’t been here today.” She shot a glare in his direction and motioned for him to once again surrender the baby, which he did so with a smirk. Harry didn’t seem at all concerned to be changing hands so often, settling right down in to each new pair of arms with no fuss whatsoever. 

Remus smiled in a way that he hoped was reassuring and shook his head a little. “Please, don’t worry, it’s alright. I appreciate your help. I don’t suppose you’d know where I could find some paints, would you? I thought perhaps you might have some here.” Sirius’ eyes were back on him again, and he could feel it sending a shiver running down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was something as simple as attraction to Sirius, or if he just felt strange being watched so intently, but it wasn’t a feeling he could recall experiencing before. 

Lily shook her head. “I’m sorry, we don’t. We had a set a little while back but nobody bought them fast enough and they all dried up. I’ll tell you what, though, a friend of ours down in Elephant & Castle has a shop that sells odds and ends like that. I could write to him and order some for you, if you like, have him send them here for you to come and collect?” 

From beside him, Sirius snorted, releasing a coil of smoke in to the air as he did so. “Dear God, Lily, must you? Peter’s a decent man but he’s not the sharpest when it comes to business, it could take weeks for those paints to get here. You should let me go and get them myself, call it a ‘thank you’ for agreeing to take the jewellery box.” He gestured vaguely to the counter with the hand holding his cigarette, and Remus’ eyes were drawn for the first time to the item Sirius had been trying to sell Lily when he’d walked in on them. It was beautiful, a long rectangular box made from what looked to be wood inlaid with gold and ivory, a deep green stone encrusted in to the gold clasp holding it shut. The ornate twisted gold roping that ran around the edges of the lid had, upon closer inspection, tiny monogrammed letter ‘B’s carved over and over again in to the metal. It had to have been custom made, and likely cost a small fortune to produce. Remus wondered why Sirius would want to sell it, especially if it was, as he’d claimed, a family heirloom. 

“I’m not sending you over to torment him, Sirius, I’ve had enough of…” Lily was interrupted by a loud crash from downstairs, followed by a series of smaller clangs and clatters and a string of muffled curses. “Oh for the love of God,” she muttered, rounding the counter and heading for the stairs with Harry still in her arms. “Do what you like, Sirius, I know you will anyway. Take your cut for the box and nothing more, believe me, I’ll know.” She called the last part behind her as she ran downstairs, her voice growing fainter the further she got. 

Remus and Sirius were left alone together. 

Without speaking, Sirius stuck his cigarette between his lips to hold it and vaulted himself bodily over the counter, much like Remus had seen Molly’s brother do in the pub the previous night only with far more grace and elegance. He wandered over to the till and pushed a button that made the drawer shoot out with the ‘ding’ of a bell, and Remus snapped back to himself to rifle in his pockets for the correct money for the easel. 

Producing what he needed, he shuffled closer to the counter and extended his arm towards Sirius. “Could you…?” he asked, gesturing to the till. 

Sirius regarded him thoughtfully for a second, then reached out and took the money from him. His long, slender fingers brushed Remus’ palm as he collected all the coins, and if the small smirk that ghosted over his mouth was any indication, he was very aware of it and had likely done it on purpose. Why, exactly, Remus hadn’t the faintest idea. The money was deposited in the till and Sirius withdrew a couple of notes for himself before sliding it shut again, pocketing the money he was obviously owed from selling the jewellery box. With his hands now once again free, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it out to Remus with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

Somehow, the eyebrow raised higher. “Why? You must be about the only man in England who doesn’t.” 

Remus shrugged lightly, feeling heat creep up his neck and threaten to turn his cheeks pink. “I have poor lungs,” he said, seeing little sense beating around the bush. At first he’d made it a habit not to tell people about his health condition, knowing it was a dead giveaway that he hadn’t fought in the war and that many would consider him a coward for it. But over time he’d come to realise that people would find out sooner or later anyway, when other men started talking about their time at the front and he had nothing to offer up to the conversation. 

Sirius, to Remus’ relief, simply nodded and took another drag of his cigarette. “Nasty habit anyway,” he said, regarding his cigarette with a look of disinterest. “Eats up your money like a parasite.” He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the counter, resting his chin on his hand. How he managed to look so elegant just slouching over, Remus had no idea. 

Before Remus could open his mouth to say anything else, perhaps to excuse himself so he didn’t have to endure the thumping of his own heart in his chest any longer, the silence in the room was broken by Lily calling up from downstairs. Remus blinked, clearing his throat quietly and half-turning towards the door. “I should…” 

“Mm, yes, you should. It was a pleasure to meet you, Remus.” Sirius didn’t straighten up from the way he was leaning, just offered him a crooked smile and took another drag of his cigarette, keeping his eyes fixed on him. 

Remus didn’t feel easy turning his back on him, but after a moment he did so and headed back down the narrow staircase to the main shop area. Whatever James had knocked over had obviously been put back where it belonged, and he was now proudly standing by the door with his arm slung over the top of the folded easel. The dents and paint splatters were more visible now it was out from behind the glass in the window, but it would suit Remus’ needs perfectly, and at a very fair price. 

“Thank you,” Remus said earnestly to Lily as he went and took the easel from James, lifting it from the floor a little to test its weight. It would be easy to carry, making it nice and portable for the optimistic event that he be called to someone’s house to paint for them. He knew he was getting ahead of himself, that at the moment nobody knew his name and nobody would be commissioning him for a long time to come, but it was always good to plan. 

“Not at all,” Lily said, bobbing Harry in her arms and giving him a pleasant smile. “It was lovely to meet you, I hope we see you back in here soon. If you’ve just moved to the area you’ll likely be needing furniture, of course, so do keep us in your thoughts.” She gave a soft little laugh that instantly warmed Remus to her, made him trust her. “I assume Sirius will go and fetch your paints for you, he likes an excuse to be chivalrous. Where are you staying, so we can have them brought to you?” 

Remus felt a tug in his chest at the idea of Sirius going out of his way to do him a simple favour, and cursed himself for being quite so easily charmed. “I’m staying at The Burrow, just down the road,” he said, forcing himself to respond and not get lost in his own thoughts as he was so apt to do. 

“Oh! With Molly and Arthur!” James spoke up, clapping his hands enthusiastically. In Lily’s arms, Harry responded to the clap with a gurgling noise, perhaps in protest at being woken. “Good man, you’ve made a stellar choice there. Never met two people more hospitable than Molly and Arthur Weasley. Do tell them hello from us, won’t you?”

It felt like being drawn in to a little family affair, bridging two houses and taking messages from one to another. He was reminded, strangely, of ‘Our Mutual Friend’, the copy of which he’d forgotten on the counter upstairs and refused to go back and get now, not with Sirius up there. Nevertheless, he recalled the story of lives intertwined with each other across the city, and felt a sense of calm come over him at the thought that perhaps London wasn’t too dissimilar to his small community in Wales so long as you fell in with the right people. “I’ll tell them,” he promised, once again dragging himself out of his thoughts before he could go in to a daze completely. “Thank you for all your help today.” 

After a few more ‘goodbyes’ and ‘thank yous’, Remus pushed open the door and let the sound of the bell ring him out as he stepped back on to the street. Part of him wanted to go out somewhere, to a café or park to sit and get some fresh air, but nothing was free in London and he had a horrible feeling that staying out would lead him in to the temptation of spending what little money he had, so he resolved to simply return to The Burrow and spend the afternoon in his room. Perhaps Molly would have a book he could borrow, or he could have a browse through the newspaper Arthur had been reading earlier if it hadn’t already been used for something. 

When he re-entered The Burrow with his easel in his hand, he found Molly sat in one of two armchairs by the fire with Ronald in one arm and a cup of tea in the other. As it was still early in the day very few patrons had arrived yet, and the ones who had seemed to be regulars, as they’d spread themselves out around the room to read newspapers and sip their beers in solitude as opposed to socialising with one another. It was nice, another little reminder of home that Remus hadn’t expected to find. He wondered if he’d find this sort of thing anywhere in London, or if he’d simply been fortunate in choosing the east end to settle for the time being. 

Molly spotted him hovering in the doorway and raised the hand holding the cup of tea as a way of waving him over. Remus carefully weaved his way around the tables and propped the easel up against the wall beside the fireplace before sinking down in to the chair opposite Molly. 

“Thank you for recommending that shop to me,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “They had exactly what I needed. And they say hello – Lily and James, I mean.” He shifted a little closer to the fire and rested one of his hands on the armrest of the chair to bring it near the flames, enjoying the tingle of the almost-too-hot air on his fingertips. 

“Oh, they’re good, aren’t they? Very nice young people. And with a son Ronald’s age too, it will be very good for him when he’s a little older to have someone to play with who isn’t one of his bloody brothers. Maybe this way he’ll stand a fighting chance, poor mite.” Molly smiled fondly, setting her cup of tea down on the hearth so she had her hand free to brush her finger over Ronald’s plump cheek. “So. I expect you’ll be needing paints too, I’ll have to wrack my brains and see if I can come up with an idea of where you can get your hands on some…” 

Remus blinked, sitting forward a little. “Oh, that’s not necessary, Molly. James and Lily’s friend…Sirius? He said he would go and fetch some for me and bring them here – very nice of him, really.” He left out the part about his subconscious finding this ‘very nice’ gesture entirely overwhelming, and instead just said, “Thank you, though, anyway.” 

The strangest thing happened to Molly’s face, as her mouth twisted downwards at the corners into a tight purse and a line appeared on her forehead. “Hm,” she said, sounding haughty. “So you met the infamous Mr Black, then, did you? Yes, I should think he came across as plenty nice, to a polite young thing like you.” She shook her head, tutting softly under her breath as she leaned back in her chair. 

Remus had the distinct feeling he was being mothered. Most men his age would have rejected the feeling immediately, but given his own mother’s recent passing and his myriad of confusing feelings after just one meeting with Sirius Black, he decided to latch on to the little display of maternal care and see what he could find out. “I take it you don’t particularly like him, then?” he said cautiously, looking up at her through his eyelashes with his head tilted down towards his lap as though that way he could pretend to not be much interested by the answer. 

Molly sighed, her forehead smoothing out. “It’s not that,” she admitted, her voice sounding more gentle than before. “He’s a nice enough man, I suppose, he’s done me no wrong personally. In fact he’s been nothing but respectful whenever he’s come round here, which is more than can be said for most of his sort.” 

“His sort?” 

“Oh, you know, dear. Aristocrats, the like. Some of them can be awful rude, looking down on folks like you and me who are just doing our best to make ends meet. But no, he’s always been decent when he’s come about, I’ve got no complaints in that regard.” She chewed her lower lip, staring off in to the fire as though thinking something over. 

“But…you do have complaints?” Remus hedged, not wanting to push her but desperately curious to know more. “Is he…dangerous, or something?” 

Molly looked conflicted. “I don’t think he means to be,” she said eventually, after a very long time spent thinking about it. “I think he’s young, and like a lot of young men who lived through the war and came out the other side, I think he thinks he’s invincible. It’s that recklessness that makes him dangerous, even when he’s well-meaning. People who grew up with that much money have a different way of looking at the world than we do, I think. I’m not saying that makes him a bad person, just that…well, just that I’d be careful around him, if I were you. You’re a very good, thoughtful man, Remus, from what I can tell. Those boys have been through hell and I have every sympathy for them but there’s no telling what it’s really done to them, and I don’t want him thinking he can take advantage of you because he’s rich and used to wear a uniform. Alright?” She leaned over to squeeze his hand gently. “Hm.” 

Remus thought that over for a moment, watching the steam from Molly’s mug rise slowly and get lost in the short bursts of smoke from the fire. “Take advantage of me how?” he asked, unable to stop himself. 

Molly sighed. “You’re a handsome young lad. I don’t want you to think ill of him, just…be mindful not to get yourself caught up in anything that’ll be hard to get out of, no matter how persuasive he can be.” In her arms Ronald started to stir and grizzle softly, and Molly rose from her chair. “Sorry, love, I should go and feed him. I’m glad you found what you needed, I’ll keep an eye out for Mr Black with the paints so you don’t have to wait in for them all day.”

Remus stood too, going to retrieve the easel from where he’d rested it against the wall. “Oh, Molly, before you go, do you have any books I could borrow? I forgot to get something to read while I was out.” There was an apologetic tone to his voice, masking the embarrassment he felt at having forgotten simply because there’d been a beautiful man standing behind the counter. 

“Of course! There’s a little family parlour through the door behind the bar, it’s the only room down there, you’ll see it right away. I’m afraid we don’t have much of a collection but hopefully you’ll find something that takes your fancy.” Ron had started to cry in earnest now, and with that said Molly headed behind the bar and swiftly up the stairs, presumably to feed him in the privacy of her bedroom. 

Waiting until he heard the door upstairs shut, Remus walked behind the bar himself and left his easel by the staircase as he went to investigate the parlour. It was a very small little room, with a tiny fireplace and a small two-seater sofa under the window. There was a photograph framed on the mantelpiece of Molly’s two brothers in their military uniforms, their freckles visible even in the sepia tone. A threadbare rug covered the wooden floor, and in the very corner stood a small wooden bookshelf. One entire shelf was occupied by a chipped china vase containing some wilting sprigs of lavender and baby’s breath, beside a pile of little paperback books upon which were written the Weasley children’s names in pencil, presumably school workbooks. The two beneath that looked more promising, and held an array of different novels and non-fiction books. 

Remus couldn’t help but notice the abundance of books about engineering and other science related subjects, some on biological matters such as types of British birds and fish and others on more technical matters such as the inner workings of motorcars. He ignored them in favour of something a little more entertaining, eventually pulling out a copy of ‘Far From the Madding Crowd’ that looked as though it had hardly been opened. Flipping it open to the title page, Remus found an inscription written in scratchy handwriting, the jaggedness of the script emphasised all the more by a spatter of ink that had obviously been caused by a pen being dragged too harshly over the paper. The inscription was short, simply: “To L, from S.” Shrugging lightly, Remus tucked the book under his arm and straightened up from where he’d been crouched by the shelf, going to take his easel up to his room. 

Everything was as he’d left it in the room, and he placed the easel in front of the window where he’d have the best view for painting. Of course, nothing much could be seen from the window except rooftops, but it would make for a change of scenery from the rolling hills of Wales and provide him with the new challenge of painting more uniformed architecture. He settled down on his bed and opened the book, wondering why a very nicely-bound copy of Hardy’s bestselling novel seemed to have never been picked up by anyone except him. When he turned the page again from the title to the following publisher’s note, he balked at the date printed there: 1874. The book was a first edition, immaculately preserved and in perfect condition. He almost felt guilty handling it, as though he would cause it to fall apart just by looking at it wrong. 

Someone with a lot of money had to have bought it. ‘S’, the inscription had said. To ‘L’. Remus wondered briefly if Sirius had had something to do with it – Molly had said he was rich, after all. But then who could ‘L’ be, if that were the case? Lily? Surely he wasn’t holding proof of something illicit going on with them, was he? 

He scolded himself for overthinking the entire situation and likely missing the mark completely with his wild assumptions, and forced himself to just turn to the first chapter and start to read. However, even as the masterful work of Hardy’s literature began to draw him in to the world of Wessex and Bathsheba Everdene, a small part of his mind refused to give up its hold on thoughts of bright blue eyes and cut-glass cheekbones, and Molly’s warnings about him that had given him more questions than she’d answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet it's been a minute. Thanks so so so much to everyone who read the last chapter and left kudos on it, it really means a lot to me! Sorry for the wait with this one, this year's been pretty hectic but I'll be graduating uni in three short months and then I'll have all the time in the world to write, so updated will come much more frequently. Please do leave me a comment if you enjoy this, it really helps motivate me to keep writing, and to write faster! Happy holidays/New Year everyone <3


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